Nights at the Rail
by DocMarten2525
Summary: Magnolia is a torch singer at the Third Rail in Goodneighbour, a fortified town in the ruins of post-War Boston. But every singer needs a band, and these are their stories. A little action, a little romance, a little light, a little darkness. Every night is different at the Third Rail.
1. When Magnolia Sings

It's a pretty sweet gig, we've got, me and the boys. I suppose we've played half the joints between here and the Capital Wasteland. They're all the same: crappy lighting and stale smoke, flat beer and cheap whiskey; junkies shooting up in the corners, and bloodstains on the floor. Little tiny stage and shitty sound. But it doesn't matter much; half the crowd's wasted by the time you start and the rest of them are working hard to catch up. If you're lucky, you get paid and you get out alive. So far, we've been lucky.

The Third Rail is different. It's in an old subway station in Goodneighbour, in what used to be the city of Boston in what was once the Commonwealth of Massachusetts back before us and the Chinks blew each other to hell. Nowadays Boston's just like any other dump of a town. Blasted and broken, with the buildings all slumped together like drunks trying to keep each other from falling down, and places so hot you can taste the rads drifting on the air. And garbage. Garbage everywhere. The world's a giant garbage dump nowadays. Maybe there was a time things were different, but if there was, we're all too busy digging through the garbage to think about it.

But Goodneighbour's cleaner than you'd expect. The streets get swept and people actually pick shit up sometimes. That's surprising, because it has a reputation. Crime gangs and drugs. Ghouls and drifters. People got this idea that it's some kind of slum. But I'll tell you - we been to Diamond City, across town, which is just an old baseball stadium that they've fortified and built houses in, and it's not much. The Dugout's a nice enough bar and those two Russkies who run it are no worse than anyone else you meet. But Diamond City has this idea it's something special. We played some kind of outdoor café deal in what they call the Upper Stands, looking down over the rest of the town. People up there, their shit smells so good you could use it as room deodorizer. Funny thing is though, Diamond City ain't no cleaner or prettier than any other shanty town we've ever seen. Sure, they got the Big Green Wall or whatever it is to keep out the bad guys, but we've seen murders on the street and the cops just wandering by minding their own business, which isn't no different from anywhere else. And it's dirty, too. I mean, hell, the whole world's dirty. But Diamond City's got pretensions. Maybe they're so used to the dirt they just don't notice it.

The other thing is, people in Diamond City are walking scared. Always looking over their shoulders thinking the Institute is going to come steal them away, stick a replica or something in their place. It messes them up. We saw a guy kill his own brother because he thought he was some kind of robot. They're crazy there. The place isn't safe.

Now Goodneighbour, that's what I call a safe town. Sure, there's all those ghouls, but they aren't ferals. They're just like people, just fewer facial features on account of the radiation made most of their skin fall off. Maybe it gives them a different way of looking at stuff. But the thing is, you can walk Goodneighbour at night and no one bugs you. Me and Jimmy and the boys, we come out after a hot set at the Rail, likely pissed to the moon, no one bothering us. There's all sorts of right bastards in Goodneighbour. But there's rules there, and people follow the rules. Or they wake up dead.

Old Charlie at the Rail – he's a pre-War robot; used to be some kind of butler or something like that, but now he runs the place for the owner, who just happens to be Mayor of Goodneighbour – he always says you take care of your own, they take care of you. And he takes care of me and the boys. And the reason he takes care of us is because of Magnolia. And the reason we stick around is because of Magnolia.

Magnolia is why people come to a dump like the this. She's like a dream on heels, wrapped in sparkling red and topped with hair so black you expect to see stars in it. She's got that thing, you know? Hell, I suppose every whore in what used to be these Great United States has That Thing, or some piece of it. But Magnolia's got it all. Because when Magnolia sings, the whole world stops to listen. And me and the boys, we're the music that lives behind her. Jimmy on the horn, Father Bob working the skins, Big Apple Sundae on the stand-up bass - and where the hell a supermutant ever learned the bass I will never know - and me pounding the keys on a Steinway so old it probably come over on the Mayflower whatever the hell that means.

Maybe she could make the music without us. But it just wouldn't be the same. So Charlie makes sure we have full bellies and all the cold beer we can drink, and warm beds up at the Rex and a few caps for walking around money. And in return we get to sit up here, night after night, wreathed in cigarette smoke and choked by the fumes of flat beer and cheap whiskey, playing along behind while that voice of hers calls down all the angels from heaven.

It's a pretty sweet gig, alright.


	2. Too Much Crazy

He was a little guy. Short, not much over five feet, and slender. He came in kind of tentative, his eyes darting back and forth as he stood just at the door, and when he finally stepped through it was quick and sudden, like a diver going into water that he knows is cold.

We were just finishing up our last set and I let my fingers find their own way across the piano keys as I watched him slip through the crowd to the bar. He was young; not much more than a kid, I figured, although the .44 on his hip rode like it belonged there. It was a big piece, too. Kid must have had more meat on him than he looked to carry something that heavy. From the way his jacket hung there had to be more iron under his arm. Right arm, same side as the holster, which made him ambidextrous or very sneaky. Maybe both. I couldn't see a knife, but didn't doubt there was one.

Some others were sizing him up, too. Polly, who flat-backs it out of a room at the Rex, gave him a quick appraisal then looked away. She'd been in and out three times already tonight and was looking kind of tired. Two clowns in raider tattoos gave him the same kind of look, but for different reasons. Their eyes lingered on the .44, then they, too, looked away. They'd been eyeing up a fat trader in the corner earlier on and I figured they were just waiting for him to leave. Half a dozen off-duty security guys on the couches by the door were also watching the newcomer. One of them got up all casual-like and wandered up to the bar while another drifted off toward the door. Reporting back to the Mayor, I'd guess. Hancock liked to know who came in and out of Goodneighbour.

The last song was just ending. "…. I do the boys a favour / with all my manual labour / It's good to be a good, good, good, good neighbour…" Magnolia was crooning, wrapping herself around the microphone like it was a lover. She had the torch turned up high, and the way she was getting into it meant someone was going to get lucky tonight.

Me and boys play backup for her, and it's a sweet gig. Six nights a week perched behind the nicest backside in the Commonwealth, with a cold beer and a clean bed waiting at the end of it. The music doesn't change much from night to night, but that's okay. We put our souls into every song, because that's what you do. But Magnolia's the star of the show. When the lights go down, it's Magnolia they want to see, and she never fails to put out.

I could see the kid's eyes light on her as he passed by, slide off, then come back again. Close up, he looked older. There was something wild in his eyes, like he'd seen too much crazy and hadn't decided yet how he felt about it. I've seen jet addicts with that look, and it never ends well.

Magnolia's head turned to follow him, and I could tell she was singing the outro to him directly. She does that sometimes, and I could see by the way his eyes widened he'd got the message. There were two empty stools at the bar now – a couple of farmers in doing some trading who'd got up to see if Polly had a group rate – and he slid into one of them. Magnolia caught Charlie's eye behind the bar and gave him a little nod. I knew the other stool would still be empty until she got there.

One of these days, she's going to get herself killed.

The song finally ended and the audience burst into applause. Magnolia finished with her lips so close to the mic she was almost kissing it.

"It's always a good time in Goodneighbour, isn't it?" she purred, the fingers of one hand wrapped loosely around the mic stand, stroking it slowly up and down. "And I hope you're having one, too. That's it for us tonight, but we'll see you all back here real soon." She turned slightly to give a wave to where we were, on the raised platform in the shadows behind the stage. "Now how about a big hand for my boys?"

The light man fired up our spot. Blinking in the sudden brightness we did our usual thing while the crowd cheered (or booed, as the case may be, but it was all good) - Jimmy blowing a soulful glissando on his sax, Father Bob firing off a rimshot, Big Apple Sundae, the supermutant, all dignified up in his black suit and bow tie, giving a deep bow from beside his stand-up bass, and me hammering out a long set of descending fifths on the Steinway.

"Good night, everyone," Magnolia said into the microphone and the lights went off, leaving us in darkness.

Afterwards she came over to chat like she always does. "Nice job tonight, boys. You were hot."

"You too, Miss Magnolia," Big Apple said in that big, deep rumble of his, always so proper and formal.

Father Bob offered her a cigarette and she smoked with us a few minutes, chatting about nothing while one of the girls brought beer. Which as beer goes, was rat piss. But it was cold rat piss and we were all sweating after the last set. After she was done, she gave us a smile and took her drink across the bar. She was working her way slowly, taking sort of a roundabout route and stopping to chat along the way. But there was no doubt about where she was going. The kid knew it, too, knew she was teasing him. He was following her with his eyes the whole time.

"Price of a beer says she takes him home," Father Bob said, nudging me. He was watching her ass intently as she moved. He always does. Or her tits. I think he thinks he might get some off Magnolia some night, but if so, he's setting himself up for disappointment. She doesn't sleep with the hired help.

"No bet," I said. "Look."

She was inviting herself to a seat on the empty stool. Charlie set her up again, and the kid, too. She took a sip, letting him enjoy her profile for a moment before turning to face him. She leaned in close as he said something, then laughed, touched his arm, let her hand rest there. Her eyes were drilling straight into his.

The only bet worth making was how long it would take before they walked out together.

I sat back, sipping at my beer, watching the room. Charlie sent over another round and I listened to the boys chatter while they drank. Tomorrow was our off day and I could see they were looking to make a night of it. The Sundae was thinking of hoofing it across the river. He had a woman up there somewhere. Jimmy had some weed and him and Father Bob were looking to find some girls and get a party going. They wanted me to come but I begged off. In the end, the three of them decided to stick together, which was just as well since the supermutant would make sure the others didn't get too stupid.

Magnolia was still chatting up the newcomer. They were farther apart now, not touching, but smiling at each other. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but they looked intimate, like they'd made some kind of connection. The stranger's face had lost its hardness and he looked even younger now, almost girlish but a bit more human. Magnolia's face was flushed and she had six fulll shot glasses lined up in front of her which she was methodically pounding back. But she was laughing between drinks and I got the idea there'd been a bet and she'd lost.

Just then one of the farmers from before stepped up behind her. Polly must have turned them down, or maybe she'd only taken the one because I couldn't see her in the room anymore. Either way, the man was drunk and reeling as he reached around and grabbed a handful of boob.

"Hey, baby…. How's about a little of that manual labour for a good, good neighbour, hey?" He was slurring bad, and he squeezed her breast hard as he tried to drag her off the stool.

In a flash the stranger was off his seat and around, the big .44 in his hand. The farmer backpedaled, taking a swing with one of his meaty fists. He was a big boy, and if he'd landed it would have sent the smaller man flying. But size doesn't matter much when the other guy's faster than you, and the stranger simply leaned back to let it slide past then stepped in and took a handful of hair, yanking the farmer's head back, jabbing his muzzle into the soft part just below the point of his jaw and thumbing the hammer back. He had that jet-crazy thing back again, written all over his face now instead of just his eyes, and I could see a bead of sweat dripping down one temple as he worked his jaw, staring up into the farmer's face.

The big man gulped, his Adam's apple moving up and down as he swallowed. The room had got very quiet. No one pulls a gun in the Rail. No one. But no one touches Magnolia, either.

The moment lengthened. A confused expression crossed the stranger's face, like he wasn't really sure what he was doing there. But it ran away and the crazy was back again, and for a moment the two fought it out across his face. The security guys were all on their feet, weapons out, and I could see the bouncer, heading over with a sap in his hand and a mean look in his eye. Charlie had a sawed-off from somewhere and was using it to cover the crowd. I put my drink down and slid the shotgun from the bracket under the piano keyboard and very quietly slipped the safety off.

The moment stretched, humming like a guitar string pulled too tight.

"That's enough, now," Magnolia said into the silence. "Everyone settle down. Ham – " she held out a hand to the bouncer. "Put it away – we're good here." Ham stopped short, his sap already raised, and a little sigh went through the room. The stranger, though, kept his death grip on the farmer, who other than to swallow again remained rigidly immobile.

Magnolia smiled softly. "That's enough," she repeated. "If we killed every drunk who tried to grab my tits, poor Charlie would run out of customers." Which wasn't true, of course, but someone laughed anyway, then the stranger laughed, too, except it was high and kind of shrill, and his eyes were still wild. But the moment of tension had passed. There was a general relaxation among the crowd, an easing of weapons all the way back into holsters, the returning of safeties to the "on" position. Magnolia laid her hand on the stranger's arm and he shuddered visibly, then slowly, slowly, opened his hand, releasing the farmer. He gave the big man a shove, pushing him at Ham. The farmer allowed himself to be hauled away without protest. I guess he was just happy to be alive, although I suspected he might soon wish otherwise.

Excitement over, the room returned to normal. Magnolia guided the stranger back to his stool. He was still pretty wound up, and she was talking urgently to him, her eyes holding his, her hand gently stroking his face. It reminded me of watching a caravan guard gentle a horse that had spooked and I wondered, not for the first time, what Magnolia's story was. Whatever she was doing, it was working. I slipped the shotgun back into its bracket and wiped the sweat off my palms.

I waved the bar girl over. "I'll have another one here. Whiskey, this time."

By the time the drink arrived, Magnolia and the stranger were gone. Polly was back again by then, sitting at the bar where Magnolia had been, and I wandered over to buy her a drink. She looked done in, and I had enough in my pocket to pay for the rest of her night. That way we'd each get what we needed – a little tension relief for me followed by a good night's sleep for her. It would be a win for both of us.


End file.
